Snapshots of Lives Magical
by Lydi Gomistan
Summary: Ficlets, looking at defining points in the sisters' lives. Inspired by the general "radio drabble/ficlet" idea.
1. Love or not

_charmed drabbles of love (or not) _

"Love Song" -- Sara Bareilles

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the predictability. So, of course, she chooses neither. Just walks into the museum Monday morning, all business. "Here." She tosses the ring down on his desk. "The engagement is off. If you even meant it in the first place. _We _are definitely done."

Roger's face has barely registered what she's said, but he starts to speak anyway. "Prue, honestly, it wasn't what you thought…" Improvisation was one of his strong suits, but somehow it wasn't working this time.

"Really?' Her tone could slice crystal. "What was it, exactly? It sure looked like you were making a move on my sister!" He doesn't met her glare or see the brief glint of hurt in her eyes which disappears as soon as he stands. She steps back. "It doesn't matter. Either way, you just lost yourself an assistant. I'm going to ask for a transfer from the board. "

"Future Love" -- Varsity Fanclub

Cole tries to remember as he talks with Andras or the grimlocks that he is a mercenary, a witch killer. The mighty Belthazor. He tries not to think of Phoebe's eyes when she smiles, or how she laughs with abandon. He cannot even bring himself to identify the feelings he has for her. Imagining what those human emotions might be doing to the delicate internal balance he has maintained for almost a hundred years is out of the question. All he knows is that he has more in common with this mark, this witch whom he and every demon before him assumed to be the weakest of the Charmed Ones, than anyone might think, and that he will stall the Triad until he figures out why.


	2. Goalposts

She sits as straight as she can on the piano bench, patent leather shoes flat on the wood stage. She can feel the eyes of the crowd of parents on her, and suddenly she misses her mom so much that her insides feel like Phoebe gave them an Indian burn. Prue holds her breath when she starts to play, trying to focus on Beethoven's sounds, and not Grams' eyes, fixed on her from the second row. For almost six minutes she loses herself in the piece, feeling what he must have felt, letting that feeling guide her playing. This music, she knows, is really old, and somehow that makes it special. Prue finishes with a flourish, and almost jumps off the bench as the parents loudly applaud. She looks toward her family, and beams. Grams is actually smiling openly, teeth and all. Both Piper and Phoebe are wide eyed.

She joins them, and Grams says, "That was very good, Prue." Piper nods, but Phoebe's brow is furrowed. In the car, the kindergartener whispers to Prue, "But what was it called?" Prue, still glowing, whispers back, "Rage Over a Lost Penny." Phoebe giggles, and Prue grins back, proud of her choice.

"She can write." These words of praise from her new boss didn't sink in until her new little nephew and Paige were safe and the demonic market half destroyed, but once Phoebe had a moment to herself, she grinned as she remembered Jason Dean's words. When was the last time she'd heard praise like that, genuine, honest, and directed at her alone? Maybe a better question was when was the last time she'd been complimented for something unrelated to magic.

It felt wonderful, regardless. Only months later, while she tried to figure out whether to get on that plane to Hong Kong, did another realization come, sudden and bracing like a premonition. Cole had never really said anything like that to her, in the two-and-half years she knew him. Magic and deception had been the basis of their relationship. But maybe with Jason, she could build something honest, mortal, and still full of adventure.

The essay didn't take as long to get onto paper as Paige thought it might. Sure, it was hard to write, but not because of the topic, really. She'd been the one who chose to write about the loss of her parents, after all. It was hard because all of a sudden things like her grammar and spelling mattered -- she might have been the first to admit that it didn't make much sense, but somehow she was honoring her parents' memories by trying to live up to all the standards of theirs, of the world's, that she'd simply ignored before. She really wanted to do right by them for once. So she wrote, and checked, and worried over every one of the 2,764 words in the essay she submitted with her application to Stanford, along with every comma, apostrophe, and semi-colon.

When she got a thick envelope in the mail with the Stanford logo on it, part of her jumped for joy. Another part wondered if it was enough to make up for everything she'd put them through.

The decision to just throw out all her flashy gourmet cookbooks, along with the assumptions they carried, was the one from that whole confused period stretching from Grams getting ill through the discovery of their destiny that Piper looked back on without any regrets at all. Spontaneity wasn't easy for the middle daughter of Patty Halliwell and Victor Bennett, but listening, taking and giving advice, and cooking itself all were. Grams had wanted her to pursue her dreams, hadn't she? And Grams herself had taught her to cook -- the older woman's protests about Piper's "gift" notwithstanding. So Piper decided about a week into September to simply cook what, why, and however she pleased. When and where, well, her kitchen and her schedule. Unless of course she could get this latest recipe from _Ladies Home Journal to work._


End file.
